


(not) meant to be broken

by pippen2112



Category: Red vs. Blue, Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: (offscreen hurt onscreen comfort), Blow Jobs, Communication, Cuddling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Nightmares, Overstimulation, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Esteem Issues, Sparring, Sparring as Flirting, Thirsty Shiro, Wash's Shitty Self-Esteem, alternative universe, rvb pre s15, voltron post s2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-10-02 09:16:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17261576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pippen2112/pseuds/pippen2112
Summary: In the month since Shiro dropped into blue base, Wash hasn’t really known what to make of him. The young stranger with enough scars to give Wash a run for his money. With a prosthetic arm that made Sarge drool when he first saw it in action. With his surprising severity and sly humor and did Wash forget to mention his stupidly pretty face?Yeah, okay, Wash knew exactly what he wanted to make of Shiro—and all the surfaces and positions he’d like to visit along the way—but he was also acutely aware that Shiro’s stranded farther from home than he could ever imagine. That for all his charm, half the time Shiro stares into space watching something else play out behind his eyes, flinching at loud noises and sudden movements before retreating to his room. Yeah, Wash knows when he should leave well enough alone. At least he’s had these last few weeks to look his fill as they’ve tried to figure out a way to send Shiro back home.





	(not) meant to be broken

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Magnum Opus of Shitposting: Team Dads Get Busy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16492427) by Anonymous. 



> Surprising no one, this fic is inspired by the delightful "Magnum Opus of Shitposting: Team Dads Get Busy." Anon, wherever you are out there, thank you for bringing this glory into the world and giving me yet another rare pair to thirst over.
> 
> Title inspired by "Iris" by the Goo-Goo Dolls. I didn't listen to it while writing, but the tone of that definitely fits this piece.

Suppressing a groan of exhaustion, Wash stumbles out of his quarters and down the long hall to blue base’s kitchen. It’s the ass end of morning, not even the faintest glimmer of sunrise on Iris’s horizon, but at this point he’s not even surprised. Of course it’s the ass end of the morning. It’s not like he’s gotten more than two consecutive nights of sleep in the last ten years. Even before Epsilon went berserk in his head, Wash had trouble sleeping; with everything that’s happened since the shit show that was Project Freelancer, yeah, he’s lucky if he gets a full REM cycle in before he wakes up kicking and screaming.

To say he knows what blue base sounds like in the dead of night is an understatement. The understatement of the fucking year, actually. He knows the base’s creaks and the sound of the wind through the walls, the sleepy sighs and snores of his teammates, everything. So as he shuffles into the kitchen to put on a pot of their local coffee substitute (which tastes like ass but kicks harder than the shit they fed him in basic, so he’s not complaining), he startles when he hears strained breathing and the rhythmic sound of punching.

Adrenaline spikes through him, wrenching his nightmare-addled brain into overdrive. Is this some kind of attack? The Reds pulling a prank? No, he’s been in enough fights with the Reds and Blues to know stealth is pretty well outside their wheelhouse. No, it sounds like someone is training, but when he cranes his head back toward the personal quarters, Wash hears Caboose’s sleepy mumbled nonsense, and Tucker shifting restlessly and groaning in his sleep, and Carolina’s resonant snores. _So who the hell is training at this hour?_

Hands at the ready and shoulders tense, Wash follows the noise to the makeshift training room he and Carolina put together when the team settled on Iris. When he peeks around the door frame, he spies a bare-chested man laying into a punching bag, sweat glistening on his back and muscles ripping beneath his skin. The newest resident of blue base. Shiro.

In the month since Shiro dropped into blue base—yes, dropped, because how else do you describe a full grown man in high tech black and white armor materializing over the kitchen table and hovering there for a split second before gravity took hold—Wash hasn’t really known what to make of him. The young stranger with enough scars to give Wash a run for his money. With a prosthetic arm that made Sarge drool when he first saw it in action. With his surprising severity and sly humor and did Wash forget to mention his stupidly pretty face?

Yeah, okay, Wash knew exactly what he wanted to make of Shiro—and all the surfaces and positions he’d like to visit along the way—but he was also acutely aware that Shiro’s stranded farther from home than he could ever imagine. That for all his charm, half the time Shiro stares into space watching something else play out behind his eyes, flinching at loud noises and sudden movements before retreating to his room. Yeah, even when his cock rears its ugly head reminding Wash of exactly how long it’s been since he had sex, he knows when he should leave well enough alone. At least he’s had these last few weeks to look his fill as they’ve tried to figure out a way to send Shiro back home.

As Shiro dodges around the bag, he catches sight of Wash and stops short. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t wake you, did I?” Shiro asks, his voice rough and ragged. He glances down at his bare chest, his cheeks brightening, but he makes no move to cover himself self-consciously or cross the training room and grab his shirt.

Unbidden, Wash’s mind dredges up the image of waking up to Shiro leaning over him, shirtless and smiling. _Fuck, what I wouldn’t give for that kind of wake-up call._ Wash bites the inside of his cheek hard and shakes his head. “No, you’re good, Shiro. I was already awake.”

Shiro mulls over that piece of information, his brow wrinkling. He cocks his head to the side. “Nightmares?”

Suddenly, Wash feels like he’s the half-naked one. “How did you…” he trails off, cheeks burning.

“It’s too late for even the most adamant of night owls, and…” Shiro pauses, his gaze softening. “Well, you look awful.”

“Ouch.” Wash glances down at himself, finds his t-shirt damp around the collar and under his arms. He can only imagine the dark circles under his eyes and the unkempt state of his scruff. Wash sighs. “Yeah, I really shouldn’t be surprised. I’m more coffee and spite than human being at this point.”

“I know the feeling,” Shiro says, his voice going quiet, his eyes drifting over to the bag, away from Wash. “Most nights, I get them too.”

“You do?”

Shiro laughs, the bright sound twisting up Wash’s insides. “Don’t sound so surprised.”

“Sorry,” Wash murmurs, scrubbing the back of his neck. “You just seem like you’ve got your head on straight. Like you’ve got things figured out.” He trails off before he can add, _Not like me._

“Hate to burst your bubble, but you guys don’t have the market cornered on mental fuckery,” Shiro replies. “If I seem like I’m put together, it’s only because I’ve been faking it so long I don’t know how to stop.”

The earnestness catches Wash off guard. The simple willingness to be vulnerable. Sure, Wash knows plenty of people who own their baggage, who use it as a shield between themselves and the rest of the world—half the time he’s riding that train himself—but instead of holding him at arms length, Shiro is opening himself up, offering himself and his experience as a beacon to others in need. He’s selfless, recklessly so, and it makes Wash want to take Shiro in his arms and put himself between Shiro and the rest of the universe.

Too many conflicting emotions knot at the base of his throat, but Wash swallows them down, eager to change the subject. “You wanna spar?” he asks, his voice coming out high and screechy and he instantly wishes he could rewind the last ten seconds and try again.

Shiro raises an eyebrow, his eyes skimming over Wash as the corner of his mouth quirks upward. “Sure you’re up for it, old man?”

The teasing tone makes Wash’s insides wrench tighter, but at this point, Wash is a professional at denying what he wants; it’s on his resume, right behind _“Weapons Specialist”_ and _“Caffenation Expert.”_ Instead, he kicks off his slippers and marches over to the ring and hops into position. “Bring it, space man.”

Shiro’s answering grin steals his breath, but Wash shakes himself and centers himself to spar.

Wash has to hand it to him: for a guy with a couple inches and at least fifteen pounds of muscle on him, Shiro is a quick fucker. Fast hands and quick feet and sharp strikes that would hurt like a bitch with his full weight behind them. Despite the ungodly hour and their mutual exhaustion, something glimmers in Shiro’s gray eyes. He grins like a cat around a mouthful of canary as he lays into Wash.

Feinting left and right, Wash works to put some distance between them, but Shiro takes every inch of ground he can get and uses it to his advantage. Before Wash expects it, his back hits the wall, but he scrambles to the side, narrowly dodging Shiro’s prosthetic arm. Moving on instinct, Wash slides in behind Shiro and uses his momentum to carry them into the wall. With one hand, he twists Shiro’s flesh arm behind his back; with the other, he pins Shiro by the nape of the neck.

“Yield?” Wash asks, pleased that he doesn’t sound half as breathless as he feels, and not just from the physical exertion.

Shiro laughs, a low rumble. In lieu of replying, he pushes a foot back, hooking it behind Wash’s ankle and pushing them both backward. Wash releases his hold as he tries to break his fall. Shiro jumps to his feet and darts back, fists raised but he doesn’t press his advantage while Wash is on the floor. “Gotta try a little harder, Washington,” Shiro teases.

Laughing despite himself, Wash pushes himself back to his feet. “Yeah, yeah.”

He barely gets the words out before the attack resumes. Wash parries blow after blow, waiting and watching for a flaw in Shiro’s assault. But fuck, does he have the endurance of stallion because Shiro hardly pauses for breath. The thought sets a flare of want through him, quickening his blood, tempting him to think about something more horizontal Shiro could put that endurance toward. Wash nearly topples over his own feet at the image of Shiro bending him over and licking him open, but he catches himself at the last minute. But finally, Shiro hesitates as Wash squares up for another attack, his eyelids drooping slightly. _There’s my opening._

Wash strikes fast, using moves he remembers seeing Carolina pull in the training room. A few quick hits that break through Shiro’s defenses, and a kick to the chest sends Shiro toppling, his hands closing around Wash’s arm at the last minute. But Wash lets his momentum carry him forward and pulls Shiro after him. When they land, Wash pins Shiro face up on the mat, knee to Shiro’s right arm, one hand at Shiro’s left, and the other hand poised at Shiro’s neck.

But before Wash can ask if he yields, Shiro moans. Not a grunt of exertion while trying to break a hold. Not a groan of exasperation. An honest to god, throaty sound of want. Of need. Wash’s throat goes dry, his mouth drops open, and he gapes. _Did he really just make that sound?_

Wash stares a split second too long. Cheeks flushed, Shiro breaks his left arm free and grabs Wash by the nape of the neck, hooks his right leg around Wash’s hip, and reverses the pin. Wash gasps as his back hits the mat, Shiro’s firm, glistening chest hovering just inches off him, and an unmistakable bulge pressing into his lower abdomen. _Fuck me, he’s hard._

For a moment, silence stretches between them, but Wash’s higher mental functions seem to have fluttered away, leaving him slack jawed and panting. Shiro cocks his head to the side, trying to make out Wash’s expression. As soon as he shifts, Shiro looks down at how they’re pressed flush together. He blushes, carefully pulling back. It takes every ounce of Wash’s restraint not to grab Shiro by the hips and tug him back down.

“Sorry,” Shiro says as he gets to his feet and offers Wash a hand up. “Got a little… carried away.”

 _Oh, please, don’t stop on my account. Get carried away_ all over _me._

But Wash just takes his hand, too baffled to actually reply. Shiro’s hand is warm and calloused against his. A soldier’s grip. Somehow, that knocks some sense into Wash. Shiro may be young and pretty, but he’s still a warrior.

“You’re good, Shiro,” he says, praying his voice doesn’t sound half as squeaky to Shiro as it does to his own ears. “If you ever, um… I mean, if I can ever…” Wash trails off, shaking his head. “Nightmares suck. If you ever want company, you know where to find me.”

Cheeks still rosy with exertion and embarrassment, Shiro scrubs a hand through his hair and wraps an arm around his chest. “Thank you,” he replies, nodding. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Wash pointedly ignores the flutter in his chest, the swell of hope. It’s a foolish reason to be hopeful. Even if Shiro gets nightmare too, why would he go to Wash for comfort? _He wouldn’t. And I don’t think I’d blame him for it._

Cursing himself, Wash wanders off to the kitchen, pouring himself a mug of coffee and retreating to his quarters before Carolina wakes up and asks him to spar with her. His ego has taken enough damage for one day.

#

Wash jolts awake to a knock at his door. Sucking in breath, he groans into the crook of his arm, equal parts grateful to yanked out of his foggy, uncomfortable dreams and agitated that now he has to crawl out of his warm blanket cocoon. He’ll get up. Just as soon as he remembers how to make his legs work.

There’s a quiet sigh and another knock. “Jus’ a momen’,” he calls, slurring as he drags himself out of bed, flips on the bedside lamp, and shuffles to his door.

He opens it to find a bedraggled Shiro at his doorstep. He’s not expecting it, but it makes perfect sense, really. Carolina would pick the lock if she needed him, Caboose would break down the door in his urgency, and Tucker would just shout at the door until Wash and the rest of the team woke up. But instead, it’s Shiro waiting for him, a blanket draped over his shoulders, an unhealthy pallor to his skin, and his white forelock stuck to his forehead.

Shiro takes one look at Wash and tucks his chin. “Woke you up again.” He reaches up and scrubs a hand through his hair. After a long pause, he goes on, “Gotta stop doin’ that.”

Wash’s chest turns warm and soupy, and an unconscious grin pulls at his mouth. “Wasn’t getting much rest anyway,” Wash replies, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “What’s going on?”

For a moment, Shiro doesn’t respond, but a little color returns to his cheeks. “I had a…” he trails off, starting again. “The other day you said….” Shiro scowls down at his feet, sucking in a deep breath. “Rough night.” He hunches his shoulders and ducks his head farther. “I really don’t wanna be alone right now.”

Dumbfounded and speechless (and not just because he’s been conscious for all of ninety seconds), Wash nods and steps out of the doorway, ushering Shiro in. And with a visible sigh of relief, Shiro hurries in.

Seeing Shiro in his personal quarters is bizarre. Nothing bad, not in the slightest, but it’s been a long while since he’s had someone else in his personal space—he and Carolina have been trying to teach Caboose and Tucker some boundaries with mixed results. But Shiro is quiet and unobtrusive. For a moment, he stands awkwardly in the middle of the room, his eyes briefly landing on Wash, hope and want and youth shining at him. _Fuck, he’s so young._ Younger than Wash had been when he got mixed up with Project Freelancer. Shiro has his entire life in front of him, a team waiting for him even if he got dropped into a strange new universe. _What the hell is a guy like that doing giving me a second glance?_

Wash leans back against the doorjamb, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Um, do you wanna talk about it?”

Pulling the blanket closer around him, Shiro shakes his head.

“Okay.” Wash’s gaze darts to the bed. His throat constricts, but there are only so many options to occupy them at this hour. And Shiro doesn’t look like he’s up to sparring. “Um, we can cuddle if you’re comfortable with that.”

Shiro’s throat bobs visibly. His shoulders tense as he speaks. “I just don’t wanna think for a while. If that’s okay.”

“Of course!” Wash replies urgently. Fervidly. Even if it’s been far too long since the universe showed him anything but contempt and misfortune, Wash has the sense not to look too closely now that it’s dropped Shiro in his lap. Instead, he locks his door and shuffles back to bed with just the bedside lamp to guide him. “You want the right side or the left?”

“The side closest to the door,” Shiro answers warily.

Wash nods, crawling to the far side of his bunk and settling down. He pulls the covers to the side and pats the empty space beside him. “C’mon, space man. Let’s get you settled.”

Shiro blushes brightly but nods. He shuffles to the edge of the bed and slips into the bunk, blanket and all.

For a few seconds, they lay side by side, neither talking, neither moving a muscle. And honestly, Wash can hear the wheels turning in Shiro’s head, grinding together without rest. _Can’t have that._ Before he can over think it into oblivion, Wash rolls onto his side.

Under the warm light from his bedside lamp, Wash can see the bags under Shiro’s eyes, the frantic way his gaze won’t settle despite the exhaustion heavy on his shoulders, the careful way he won’t let himself relax into the mattress. But Wash remembers the months he spent in solitary, lost in his own mind and practically catatonic. Compared to him, Shiro is pretty well adjusted.

When he’s certain Shiro can see him from his periphery, Wash reaches toward him, watching for the slightest flinch. Instead, Shiro leans in to meet Wash’s hand. Nuzzles into Wash’s palm. _Okay, he wants to be touched. I can do that._

Ignoring the downward rush of his blood, Wash sweeps his hand along Shiro’s neck to his shoulder, squeezing gently. And fuck, he can feel every little ripple of muscles through Shiro’s shirt. Exhaling shakily, Shiro scoots closer to Wash, draping one arm over Wash’s chest and nosing against his collarbones. A breath gets punched out of him, but Wash rolls with it. Trails his fingers down from Shiro’s shoulder to his waist. Presses his free hand to the back of Shiro’s head. Cradling it, not threating his fingers into Shiro’s hair and tilting Shiro around to kiss him. Nothing like that, even though his hindbrain jumps at the idea. Shiro shudders, his breath tickling at Wash’s neck, and Wash stiffens further.

He holds Shiro against him, relishing how Shiro clings to his shirt. Uses him as an anchor. Wash keeps his breathing deep and slow, silently willing Shiro to follow his lead. Bit by bit, the tension bleeds out of Shiro. He lets Wash take his weight and goes limp. And a not-so-small part of Wash’s heart flutters at the thought that of everyone, Shiro put his trust in him.

Words aren’t his forte, but Wash presses his nose into Shiro’s hair and rubs a circle along Shiro’s back. “If talking helps, I’m here, but you don’t have to if you don’t want to. Just rest.”

Shiro shivers, curling himself closer against Wash. Wash holds him a little tighter, and then there are lips against his neck, teasing and light. Wash flinches, gasping in surprise. Shiro moans and squirms closer.

It takes every ounce of his self-control for Wash to pull back. “Shiro?”

In lieu of answering, Shiro buries his face in Wash’s chest. And as much as Wash really wants to let this happen, he summons his strength and speaks. “Shiro, you’re not in your right mind right now. You need to stop, okay?”

Shiro doesn’t respond, but he goes eerily still. Wash holds his breath, praying he hasn’t fucked it up, but Shiro’s unclenching his hands, ducking his head, and rolling away. And as he goes, Wash just barely glimpses the broken look on Shiro’s face. Hurt and rejection and pain.

Before he can think better of it, Wash reaches out and catches Shiro by the waist. Shiro goes still once more, like he’s afraid so much as breathing will make him shatter. “That’s not a ‘no,’” Wash says quickly, screechy and desperate, everything he hates about his voice, but Shiro doesn’t pull away. Wash clears his throat and tries again. “It’s a ‘not right now.’ Trust me, I’d be a fool to turn you down, but I don’t want to take advantage of you. Call it selfish, but I don’t want to be something you regret.”

“Oh,” Shiro says quietly, more a puff of air than a word. He doesn’t turn back toward Wash, but doesn’t roll out of bed either.

Wash runs his thumb in a circle along Shiro’s hip. “You can go if you want, but…” He sucks in a breath, steadying his resolve. Willing himself to be brave. “But I’d really like it if you stayed. Okay?”

Humming, Shiro rolls back into position against Wash’s chest. He can probably feel Wash’s heart pounding, but for the life of him, Wash doesn’t care. “Thank you,” Shiro murmurs into his shoulder.

Tension knots at the base of Wash’s throat. He knows that tone; he’s been there, convinced that he doesn’t deserve whatever small mercy he’s been given, or that if he blinks he’ll be whisked back to the hell his nightmares won’t let him forget.

So Wash wraps his arms around Shiro and holds him close, the way he always needs someone to hold him when he’s had a particularly bad nightmare. “You’re welcome,” he says even though his throat aches sympathetically. But then Shiro relaxes into him and Wash sighs softly, pulling him closer.

And for the first time in ages, Wash’s dreams are peaceful.

#

When Wash next wakes up, there’s sunlight streaming in through the narrow window along the ceiling of his quarters. He’s warm and rested and suddenly, painfully aware that his arms are empty. _Guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Probably got cold feet when he—oh,_ fuck!

Wash bolts upright at the sudden pressure against his cock. He pushes down the blankets and finds Shiro curled up between his legs. He’s resting his cheek against Wash’s thigh and quietly nosing at the fly of Wash’s pajamas.

Jaw slack, Wash stares for a solid ten seconds before his brain restarts. “Sh-Shiro?” Wash says, half-mumble, half-gasp as he pushes up onto his elbows. “What’re you—” Shiro nuzzles into the crease of his thigh, breathing deeply, and for another five seconds, Wash forgets how to words. Instead, he gasps out, “ _Oh!_ ”

Chuckling softly, Shiro presses his cheek into Wash’s thigh. “Sorry I woke you again.”

 _Please, let me wake to this sight every day for the rest of my life._ Wash reaches down and threads his fingers through Shiro’s hair, and Shiro lifts his gaze to meet him. “Feeling better?”

“Much,” Shiro says, turning his head and tracing his nose along Wash’s wrist.

Wash shivers, his fingers clenching involuntarily. “Not that I’m complaining, but shouldn’t we be… I mean, usually by now Caboose had nearly burned down the base.”

Shiro shuffles to the edge of the bed and retrieves a slip of paper. When he moves back to Wash, his cheeks are red and his head slightly ducked. “Carolina slipped this under your door,” he replies, holding out the paper. Wash takes it, finds Carolina’s stilted scrawl. _“I’ll keep the other occupied for a couple hours. Enjoy yourselves ;)”_ Wash blushes at the implication—he can only imagine what Carolina walked in on—and obviously Shiro has seen and considered the note, seeing as he’s settled back between Wash’s thighs and hasn’t made any move to extract himself. 

Before he can overthink things any further, Shiro rubs his cheek against Wash’s groin, his sharp eyes flicking up to meet Wash’s. “If you’re not interested, please tell me now before I make a fool of myself, but last night you took care of me when you didn’t have to, and I’d _really_ like to return the favor.”

Wash expects his libido to jump for joy, shrieking victory to the skies, but he doesn’t. His gut twists up with something sour and sad. _Oh, he’s just paying back a debt._ Which makes sense, really. Why would Shiro want anything to do with him? Wash turns away, his eyes searching for anything else to focus on. “It’s okay, Shiro. You don’t have to.”

For a moment, neither of them move or speak. Wash sighs. _Fuckin’ figures._ But before Wash can make some excuse and flee, Shiro crawls up the bed on his hands and knees. He touches Wash’s chin and tips his head around so Wash has to look up at those dark, earnest eyes as Shiro smiles at him. “I want to. And unless you tell me to stop, I’m gonna kiss you now. Alright?”

Heart in his throat, Wash studies Shiro’s face, looks for anything less than sincerity in his gaze and finds nothing. Just glimmers of hope and want where weeks ago there’d been only despair. He gulps hard. “Yes, please.”

With a low chuckle, Shiro leans in and kisses him. His lips are warm and faintly chapped, his hand firm as it slips over to cup Wash’s cheek. He presses closer, licking into Wash’s mouth, and Wash can’t help moaning. He winds his fingers in Shiro’s hair and arches up against him, relishing Shiro’s bulk and heat bearing down on him. When they break for air, Shiro rests his forehead against Wash’s, gasping. “Think you can keep up, old man?”

A laugh startles out of him, but Wash tightens his grip in Shiro’s hair. “Take your best shot, space man.”

Grinning, Shiro falls back between Wash’s legs, tugging down Wash’s pajamas and boxers in one move and licking up his cock in one long, heavy stripe. He sucks the tip into his mouth, groaning in delight. Wash sucks in a breath at the sudden warm vibrations surrounding him. A needy noise wells up in his throat, but Wash can’t do a thing but buck into Shiro’s mouth and hang on for dear life. 

Shiro shoots him a quick, questioning glance, easing off him for a moment. “That a good sound?”

“Fuck yes, Shiro,” he blurts, every word running together. “Yes, that’s a very good so—”

Shiro, the not-so-little shit, surges forward and swallows him in one seamless gulp.

“ _Oh, fuck me, Shiro!_ ”

He can’t tell for certain, but in spite of the cock stuffed halfway down his throat, Wash would swear Shiro is smirking up at him. Then he swallows again, burying his nose in Wash’s groin without so much as gagging, and Wash thinks he might have died in his sleep, because if this isn’t heaven, he doesn’t know what is.

It’s been a shamefully long time since Wash’s last sex partner, much less the last time he actually wanted to get off, so it’s not long before Wash feels his balls pull tight and the heat pooled low in his stomach clenches. He tugs at Shiro’s hair, groaning. “Shiro I’m—”

Shiro works his tongue against the underside of Wash’s cock, and Wash comes with a bitten off shout. He pulses hard, every inch of him pulling taut as Shiro keens and swallows every drop.

Wash goes boneless against the bed as Shiro suckles him through the aftershocks, teasing him to the edge of overstimulation before letting Wash slip out of his mouth. Exhaling hard, Wash tugs Shiro’s hair, urging him up. Shiro goes willingly, moaning weakly. 

Up close, Shiro’s eyes are blown wide with want, and his lips are red and raw and so enticing Wash has to pull him in for a kiss. Shiro shivers, lazily grinding his cock into Wash’s stomach, chasing his pleasure. If Wash hadn’t just spilled, if he were still a young man, he’d be spreading his legs and begging for Shiro to fuck him. Still, there’s something he can do for Shiro.

Breaking their kiss, Wash runs his free hand down Shiro’s side, feeling his muscles shifting through his shirt. Shiro presses their foreheads together, panting for breath as he slowly stills his hips. “Please, Wash,” he whispers.

 _Fuck, he’s pretty._ Wash trails his fingers down to the nape of Shiro’s neck. “It’s okay, Shiro. I’m gonna help you.” As he speaks, Wash lets the hand at Shiro’s side drift southward, fingers teasing along the waistband. “Spit or lube?”

Shiro keens, hips bucking reflexively. “Don’t need it.”

Wash’s eyebrow ticks upward, not entirely sure he believes it, but he pushes his hand into Shiro’s boxers, relishing the rasp of warm skin against his fingertips. His fingers curl around Shiro’s dick, already sticky and slick with precum. Shiro throws his head back, groaning.

“Fuck,” Wash gasps under his breath, reveling in the easy slide. And he didn’t even take five seconds to push down Shiro’s pants so he could see all of him. _Double fuck._ Maybe he’ll get lucky and Shiro will want a round two. “C’mere,” he says, pulling Shiro close and kissing him as Wash strokes his dick.

Shiro thrusts into Wash’s grip, panting and moaning at the pressure. Wash swallows every noise, sucking on Shiro’s tongue as he flexes his hand, swirling his thumb over Shiro’s head with each buck. Holding Shiro close, Wash wraps a leg around Shiro’s hips, urging Shiro to fuck his fist. Bless him, Shiro does just that. Wash watches as pleasure pinches tight across Shiro’s face until Shiro has to break the kiss and press his face into Wash’s neck. “Don’t stop,” Shiro whimpers. “Please, don’t stop.”

“I’ve got you,” Wash says, holding Shiro tighter to him. 

“Please, please, _please.”_

Wash cranes his head up, mouthing at Shiro’s shoulder. He tightens his fist and says, “Come for me,” just before Wash leans in and bites Shiro’s shoulder.

Crying out, Shiro spills, his rhythm never faltering as his cock pulses. And he doesn’t stop. He keeps thrusting with wild abandon, moaning and squirming and quietly begging, “ _Don’t stop. Don’t stop_.” So Wash keeps his grip firm around Shiro, pets his hair, and holds tight. It’s the better part of a minute before Shiro stills his thrusts, pulling free from Wash’s hand and collapsing on him. Trembling and boneless. 

Careful not to stimulate him any further, Wash wipes his hand clean on his sheeps and wraps his arms around Shiro. Runs his fingers through Shiro’s hair and hums softly. Waits until Shiro breathes smoothly and slowly, tilting his head back to meet Wash’s gaze, a pretty blush still coloring his cheeks. He smiles softly, and Wash’s heart flips in his chest. “Thanks,” Shiro whispers. “You have no idea how badly I needed that.”

Wash gapes at him as he fumbles for his words. “Pretty sure I should be the one thanking you, space man.”

Laughing, Shiro snuggles into Wash’s chest. “Let me know if I get to heavy. Or whenever you need to get up.”

 _And if I never wanna let you go?_ Wash swallows that response and rests his cheek against the crown of Shiro’s head. This isn’t gonna last. Shiro’s team will find some way to teleport him back to their ship, or the Reds will jerry-rig some nonsense that works by some miracle. Either way, Shiro will be gone. Sooner or later. So Wash holds him tight and closes his eyes and promises to make the most of however long they have left.

**Author's Note:**

> Questions, comments, and concrit welcome!


End file.
